Wait
by Ephemeral Dreamer1
Summary: As Shion waits for Nezumi to return, he pores over his memories, afraid that if he doesn't, he'll forget.


**For katsui-san, because I finally got around to writing that sequel you wanted. (If you can even call this a sequel.) Either way, hope you like it!**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own No.6. *sigh***

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><p>Unlike Nezumi, who wanted to be able to forget the memories, Shion clung to them like a lifeline, because he couldn't forget—if he forgot he didn't think he'd be able to recover, with nothing left of Nezumi but a ghost of a memory, insubstantial and wavering. He immersed himself in remembered sights and smells and tastes and sounds, rewinding and replaying in order to check that he hadn't missed even one small detail, one then-overlooked moment. He kept it all on near-constant repeat, over and over, because he didn't want to forget, didn't want those memories to leave him just like the person they depicted, disappearing as quickly and easily as smoke.<p>

Shion poured over everything, both the good and the bad, the conversations and the arguments, the light touches and the harsh grasps, the peaceful lulls and the cold silences. He remembered Nezumi's hand tight around his throat, a press away from stealing his last bit of air, but also the weight of that same hand in his while they danced to music only they could hear, leading Shion patiently through the steps. He compared the cruel twist of a smirk that Nezumi wore to the gentle curve of his lips when he lifted them in a rare, genuine smile. The chilling, emotionless sound of his voice when he held a knife to Shion's throat versus the soft, lilting tone that he used to send the dying to rest, or the desperate pleas Shion heard when he was nearly killed by that bullet in the Facility.

Shion would take these comparisons and with them was the knowledge that even though he knew of Nezumi's rough, jagged exterior, he had also seen what lay within, something vulnerable and hopeful and fragile. No one had ever seen that side of Nezumi but Shion, in little bits and pieces through flickering gray eyes and actions he tried to play off with sharp words and snapping insults.

Sometimes he would dwell on other things too, as the night drew on and his thoughts roamed—the press of Nezumi's lips against his, the tumble of long, flowing hair when the other took it out of his ponytail before he went off to work. Shion would bundle these sensations and images around himself like a blanket to ward off the cold, and vaguely wished that he had had enough courage back then to linger just a second longer in that ill-named goodnight kiss.

But as much as Shion reminisced and wished on the past, he also wondered about the future, about when Nezumi would finally come home after his journey. Maybe it would be weeks or months or years, but he knew that Nezumi would return, he had no doubts about that. He had promised, after all.

Perhaps he would appear during a storm just like last time, drenched in rain and slipping in through the window without a sound like lightning, silent but electric and ever-changing. Or maybe Shion would find him instead, a stride set apart in the crowd by its pace, a pair of glinting eyes in the night when all Shion had to guide him was the moon and the stars. What about after, though? What would happen? Yes, Nezumi had promised to return, but there was no guarantee that he would stay with Shion, especially since now he didn't need the other's help to stay alive. Surely they'd be different from what they were before, one-sided enemies and a relationship filled with questions, threats one day and compliments the next, but what would they become? Friends, partners, something in between? He knew his own feelings, but what if Nezumi's had changed, what if when he came back he didn't want to be with the naïve airhead that always managed to get himself into trouble?

Shion shook his head; he didn't want to think about that possibility, didn't allow himself to. He needed a distraction, something to take his mind out of the train wreck he knew it'd become if he let himself go any further.

A small squeak sounded from the window, and Shion looked over at Hamlet, who was perched on the edge of the window sill that looked over the night sky. He smiled slightly at the mouse, and scratched it behind the ears, earning him a pleased chirp in return. Hamlet had decided to stay with him instead of following its master, and Shion wondered fleetingly if perhaps that wasn't merely coincidence or favoritism, but a carefully constructed decision. The idea took root, and remembered Nezumi mentioning to him before that he had kept an eye on Shion using the mice during their first separation, keeping track of him throughout the years. The idea had embarrassed him before, especially when it became evident that privacy was not taken very seriously into account, but now he craved it, wanting for that connection, no matter how small. Shion studied the tiny black eyes peering at him closely, questioning, hoping that another pair was looking through right now, watching him in turn.

But then, if they were, what would they be thinking? Would Nezumi be proud of him and what Shion had become in his absence, stronger and independent, or would he be disappointed, just like that time in the Correctional Facility when he took matters in his own hands for once, staining them red with blood? Shion didn't know. So much had happened, so many decisions had been made, things he was both proud and ashamed of. He had helped the city back up on its feet, was a major part in reconstruction and building and bringing the people of West Block and No.6 together, but he had also lied and stole while the city was still in chaos, turned a blind eye to things because he couldn't afford to put himself in danger when he had his family to take care of.

He knew that what he did was wrong, nightmares plaguing him when the memories weren't enough, but Shion didn't know what else was he supposed to do. It wasn't just his life on the line, and Nezumi wasn't there to help him, no one was, really—but Shion only blamed himself. He should have been stronger, more capable of protecting not just himself but the people around him. He should have just been _more_, but he wasn't. He would be though, Shion promised himself. He'd make sure of that. Things were better now from what they had been after all, and Shion's life had regained some aspect of normality. He had gotten himself his own apartment after starting a committee to help rebuild and strengthen what had been lost. So far they still had a long way to go, but they were making progress, setting up shelters and food drives, opening up the old factories to make more jobs. The were starting to establish a sort of order, the beginnings of a system that he would see to was far kinder and better than what No.6's management had been.

Even though he was still working, Shion made his family and friends his top priority. He made sure he was able to see his mother every day along with the children that liked to visit the shop, and kept in touch with Inukashi and Rikiga, occasionally running errands for one of them if they asked. They hadn't changed much, especially Inukashi, as blunt and unapologetic as ever. She especially made it clear how much she despised Nezumi, criticizing him for leaving, although she wasn't surprised, saying he was always a 'good for nothing filthy rat'. She called him a coward for leaving Shion to salvage what was left, to fix what he had destroyed, but no matter what she said, Shion didn't, _couldn't_ hate Nezumi, because after all, he understood.

Even though it hurt, even though he hated it with everything he had, Shion knew that Nezumi's departure was necessary. They had nothing else but they had time, time to learn and grow and maybe along the way figure out what they needed to make this work, if he still wanted to make it work. Shion knew now that he could survive on his own without using Nezumi or his mother or even No. 6 itself as a crutch, and Nezumi…well, truthfully Shion didn't know what Nezumi was doing, but if Shion was finding another part of himself that he had previously never discovered, he hoped maybe Nezumi was doing the same. Perhaps he was pursuing his acting career, up on an illuminated stage dressed in an elaborate costume, performing to an eager audience like Shion had envisioned before. But maybe, he thought, Nezumi had decided to take up another trade, starting anew, picking from any one of the many talents he had accumulated over the years.

Shion glanced around the room he was in. It was clean but sparse, empty; he didn't have many personal belongings to fill up the space, just a couple pictures and books, old classics he'd bought at a tiny corner store. But as Shion laid in bed and closed his eyes, he could nearly imagine a different place, back in West Block in a room filled to the brim with books, more than he count count and worn from time and usage, Nezumi at his side. The thought made him smile, as he burrowed deeper under the covers and felt the heavy press of sleep begin to drift over him. Tomorrow was another day, and maybe, just maybe, it would be the day Nezumi came home.


End file.
